


Darkness Rising

by LordLockhart1770



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Forced Marriage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Marriage Contracts, Multi, Post-Hogwarts, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordLockhart1770/pseuds/LordLockhart1770
Summary: Something sinister is stirring in the New Republic of British Magic.Those thought allies and friends turn and there is little faith left for one very desperate Hermione Granger.Will she have time to save the fledgling hope for a better future or will she again be crushed under the weight of bureaucracy and hidden enemies.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Multi
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first work that I am slowly writing throughout the lockdown. Please be kind.

This was not the way that Hermione thought she would be spending her twentieth birthday.

It had been a hectic year after the defeat of Voldemort at the hands of _The-Boy-Who-Lived_ , _The Chosen One_ Harry Potter. Almost the second that Tom Riddle’s homunculus form had hit the floor of Hogwarts Great Hall, his supposed followers, now robbed of their shining beacon of dark hope had fled into the night; unidentified. Free and clear of the repercussions that would inevitably follow.

Not to say that there had not been individuals identified, captured, and incarcerated. In their hasty retreat from the School, former Death Eaters abandoned their brethren to face the wrath of a vengeful populous. Vincent Crabbe Senior, once revived, put up extraordinarily little fight at the news of his only child’s death and sat in the corner of the classroom serving as the Death Eater’s prison. Walden Macnair still hadn’t recovered - and possibly never would – from his scuffle with a furious Rubius Hagrid. He lay on a conjured cot and was attended by a hard-faced woman whose arm lay limply at her side; bones vanished. No one was exactly sure who she was but the mark on her arm and her attentiveness to the butcher Macnair suggested that they were a connected couple.

In total, of the several hundred soldiers under Tom Riddle’s command only half – at best – had been identified and placed in the holding room.

It was a thought that Hermione had circled back to over and over in her year of freedom and even now, once again lying on her blasted cot in their cramped and cat-smelling tent, she considered just how many _respectable_ members of the newly established Republic of Magical Britain hid brands under long robes and glamour charms.

A year. That was all it took for hell to once again rain down upon her head and steal away the new blossom of hope that had grown out of the Battle of Hogwarts. A year of celebration and relaxation. A false hope that she might be able to put aside the pain and suffering, no longer needing to look over her shoulder, no more cold and hungry nights hidden in dark and lonely forests, each and every noise a possible attacker in the night; sneaking up on their little hiding place to murder them all for the crime of existing.

In that year Hermione had completed her NEWTS with Outstanding’s all round and started actively looking at positions within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she had snogged Ronald Weasley on the steps of their School amidst the smoke and violence, and she had started the process of trying to locate her parents on the far side of the world. She had found her own place above the newly rebuilt Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour on the cheap. Hermione wasn’t one to use her power as a member of the _Golden Trio_ as the Daily Prophet had taken to calling her, Harry and Ron; but being able to get a series of rooms so close to Flourish and Blotts had been worth the embarrassment of having an Ice Cream flavour (Caramel and fairy floss) and making an appearance once a month at the establishment.

That apartment was probably gone now. Those carefully considered books, her research and plans all taken and placed in a box somewhere deep in the archives of the Auror offices; used to try and locate her and those sharing the tent she currently lived in.

Once again Hermione, Harry and Ron were fugitives.

“And for such a silly reason” Hermione huffed; arms crossed.

“You say something Mione?” came a muttered and muffled response in the dark. Hermione didn’t need to see in order to know who said it. Ron hadn’t left her side since they decided to leave three months ago. Harry was in the far corner, probably pretending her couldn’t hear their whispered conversations of sweet nothings.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep Ronald.” Illegible words followed by a body turning over and the ominous creak as the old wood of the cot he was sleeping on threatened – as always – to give way.

Hermione tried to follow suit, but no matter how controlled her breathing got, sleep still eluded her.

She turned and faced her Ron. His long red hair the only thing visible, peeking out from under the covers of his blankets. His long and lithe frame silhouetted against the stark whiteness of the tent walls.

Hermione remembered how warm her felt under her hands. The desperate and heated moments stolen in days following the end of the Second Wizarding War. The searing passion as they would fumble in the dark, releasing the tension of the war in a quest for immediate and carnal satisfaction. Looking back at it, it was amazing Molly had never caught her sneaking in and out of Ron’s room during those nights. Harry enjoyed taking full advantage of the situation and they would smile as they passed each other on the stairs to their lovers’ rooms.

“Maybe Molly did notice.” Hermione mused. It did seem in the aftermath of the war and Fred’s death at the hands of Augustus Rookwood that Molly had started to see her remaining children as adults in their own rights and taken a much more hands off approach to their lives. Hermione knew for a fact that Molly had caught Harry in Ginny’s bed at least once and had said nothing but “Stay safe” to her mortified daughter.

Hermione smiled and felt those tingles run down her body; small kisses of neuromuscular activity as she reminisced of her time in Ron’s bed, her nails digging into his broad shoulders – excellent for being a Quiddich Keeper – as he would softly bite her throat and bring those lovely big hands up her thighs and –

She bolted up in bed; determined not to have those dreams again. They were frustrating and embarrassing and served no help stuck as they were in this limbo.

Those dreams where _why_ they were stuck in this limbo.

She lay down again tried to focus on the problem at hand.

It wasn’t even as if they knew what was going to come screaming round the corner from the new Republic. Edicts were coming down thick and fast as the newly elected officials tried to put as much distance between themselves and the capitulators that helped the former Ministry commit genocide on a generation of muggleborns, adults and children alike.

Harry hadn’t wanted to tell her what he had found at Azkaban prison when they took it from the Death Eaters and Dementors that hadn’t joined in the Battle; Hermione had had to go for herself. The first thing she had seen were the wands. Mountains of them, filling entire rooms, discarded by the guards as they took them from _undesirables_ that had bonded with them.

When Hermione was seven her parents had taken her to The London Museum of Jewish Life in the heart of London’s East End. She had walked through the exhibits and saw the photos of items left behind by people that would not live to reclaim them. The wands were the same. Some two thousand wands were piled high with no witch or wizard to ever reclaim them. It enraged her and she placed a charm on them all, preventing them being touched or moved, until she could find a way to honour the deaths of their owners.

The prison itself was grim. Violent. She had to force herself to keep walking through; stand witness to the horrors that had befallen her people. She could understand why her grandmother still cried about her own experiences in the Second World War. Her grandmother had never really spoken in depth about the people that had died in the camps but the pain had served as an inspiration for Hermione to clothe herself in achievements. Force people to recognise her brilliance and in doing so protect herself.

It hadn’t done her fellow muggleborns any good. Herded and cut down in crowded cells. Those that the Death Eaters hadn’t gotten round to killing in the final desperate hours before Harry arrived, armed once again with the Elder Wand, they had left to the dementors. Not a soul was left in the building, the Death Eaters taking their own lives before surrendering and answering for their crimes. The dead were carefully catalogued, each name to be remembered and etched into the floor of the New Republic’s Great Hall.

That grand gesture – something that Hermione took pride in at the time – felt hollow now. Hermione groaned and berated her overactive brain for bringing up the horrors she had forced herself to see. “On the plus side” she bitterly thought “no more lustful desires.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

It had all kicked off on the anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione sat in her reading chair, a high wingback with deep red leather and lion paws for feet, going through the Daily Prophet over her morning cup of tea when she was rudely interrupted by a tapping at her window.

Outside, a slightly ruffled and grumpy looking owl sat on the perch she had placed on the window ledge. Only a select number of people were able to send owls past her wards and the disgruntled nature of the bird immediately informed Hermione that it had no such permission. Only the Republic had the ability to bypass her rerouting charms and send her a missive directly.

Opening the window, Hermione took the scarlet red envelope from the Owl who gave a mournful hoot before flying off again, briefly shuddering as it breached her wards for the second time.

With a strong, sudden tug the scarlet envelope pulled itself out of Hermione’s hands and slowly opened at her eye height. A quick and efficient voice proceeded to immediately recite the letter within.

_Dear Ms Hermione Granger,_

_By order of the New Republic of Magical Britain, it has been deemed necessary to swiftly and comprehensively alleviate a grievous situation that has arisen through the insurrection and violence that has permeated through the very fabric of our once illustrious society._

_In a closed session of the Legislature, it has been deemed vital that our population aim to not only survive but indeed thrive in the aftereffects of the Battle of Hogwarts and the horrors that had been meted out onto the public by the former Ministry of Magic._

_With immediate effect, we the Republic have decided that immediate prosperity must be encouraged if not enforced._

_With the collaboration of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the Department of Mysteries, You have been matched with a suitable candidate that will ensure not only your happiness but the happiness of future generations and the survival of our culture._

_Your magical signature, along with completed dossiers has ensured that the selection process will meet with your approval._

_Your partner in going forward is:_

_CASSIUS WARRINGTON_

_Couples are expected to present themselves to the Department of Registrations by no later than a week after Walpurgis Eve to demonstrate compliance with this edict._

_BE WARNED. ANY ATTEMPT TO AVOID, NEGATE OR IN ANY WAY DISMANTLE THIS UNION WILL BE MET WITH THE FULL FORCE OF THE RUPUBLIC._

_ANYONE FOUND IN VIOLATION OF THESE EDICTS WILL BE SENTENCED TO NO LESS THAN FIVE FULL YEARS IN AZKABAN._

_Peace and Prosperity,_

_Brunhilde Stokke_

_Permanent Secretary to the President of the New Republic of British Magic_

Hermione promptly threw up.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Looking back on that day Hermione knew she should have realised that there was something amiss with her. The edict, while horrific was by far not the worst thing she had been forced to endure. She had seen her friends die, erased her parents’ minds – possibly forever and even been tortured at the hands of the craziest witch ever to have walked to earth. Not even as Bellatrix carved up her arm with the word MudBlood was she reduced to vomiting. It was a testament to her capacity of resilience.

“I should have known” she muttered to herself, turning around to get out of bed. It was taking more and more effort each day, but Ron and Harry promised to help if she started struggling on her own.

“Time to get you some food, I think” she smiled, patting her lower abdomen.

Hermione Granger was four months pregnant.


	2. Chapter 2

It had taken generations.

An unending devotion that had survived, plague, famine, war, pestilence, and death; an unending trail of the original 11 through their first-borns and their first-borns first-borns. A trial that showed that they alone knew the unalienable truth, the reality of what had needed to be done.

They saw the rise of persecution and it redoubled their resolve, feeding on generations of lessons and customs. They saw the rise of would be kings, leaders that claimed to lead them out of the dark; only to know that they were as a warm wind to the raging inferno of the one true master.

They had seen the rise of the _Dark Lord_ and scoffed, knowing of his eventual defeat. They were everywhere, no need for names or titles for their heritage was secret and surpassed all others.

The trees had been the first major hurdle to overcome. Clippings from each of the oldest in the land had been carefully cultivated for generations, hidden from magic lest they be ruined of their intended purpose. Clippings became shoots, shoots sprouting to saplings. Saplings placed in the clearing, hidden from the world, growing ever so slowly into their full bloom.

First to be planted was the Reed on the eve of Samhain. a thick pleating of the thin stems played a haunting melody on the Eastern wind. The changing wind. The call for those lost and desired.

Second came Elder and planted on Yule, the winter solstice. Placed exactly in the heart of the longest night, called for the end, and beginning; a time to bring together the collective hearts of the devoted for their single purpose.

Quickly following stout Elder was thin Birch, fortuitously placed on the New Year and the death of their Master. Its silver sheen reflected to moon, lighting the way for the year ahead. Purifying the world and bringing forth the new world.

Twisted Rowan was fourth, interred on the Imbolc, blossomed its fire red berries. All eleven helped to plant it, binding the families as one cause and purpose. To bring forth the mind that formed their ideals; the spirit’s journey back from the Veil and to them.

A fifth Healing Ash from the Hill of Uisnrch, trunk-split and mended, was placed for the rising of the moon on Lupercalia. Its cleft providing a portal for the healed body to return. A loving tree for the world to adore the glory of their returned Lord.

Mossy Alder for Ostara sprouted sixth, balancing the afterlife and the now, a rite of Spring. Growing in the dark and hidden, its secret ambitions to sprout forth the growth of a fully formed man, right in their power and cold command. Flowering branches attracting no faerie magic.

The seventh Rushing Willow planted on the Beltane evening, standing proud next to its water monarch, brushes away the danger of discovery. Its protecting and trailing leaves allowing the eleven gathered to understand and acknowledge their secret purpose. To mend their broken-hearted promise, the ending of their failure for so long to bring back their Master. A sign of strong protection and healing for wizard kind.

Contradictory Hawthorn, with its death-like smell and healing fruits, flowered the moment it was planted in defiance of Muggle hatred and their desire for the death of wizard kind. The conflicted nature of their Lord, love lost and won, hatred founded and forgotten, reawakened in the eleven the purpose of their cause.

The ninth proud and mighty Oak, the holder of the Isles and the long Summer days, placed to the South and born under Litha’s mid-day sun held within it the power and strength needed for their goal. Its long and sinewy branches holding their good fortune and courage, protecting the secret and holding at bay those that would destroy them.

Holly was tenth with its sharp leaves and tiny red berries. It held the gateway for the harvest open, planted as its cycle came to an end and on the eve of Lughnasadh. It was symbolic of the harvesting of the soul that was to be summoned forth and would shroud them in protection from the risk of exposure.

It was difficult to find an auspicious day to plant Hazel but thanks to the help of a Seer in the late 19th century, at the very moment of its including to the circle a great explosion was heard around the world as the mighty Krakatoa erupted. It was thought auspicious by the family and agreed as a sign of good fortune with the divination tree.

A vine, taken from the fields of old Rome and smuggled across the seas in the late 12th Century stood tall and in defiance of nature, its thin tendrils floating freely and heavy with the blood red grapes it carried. The heady scent of the fruit that had taken eight-hundred years to ripen was perfectly timed with the festival of Mabon. Balance was maintained in the beauty of the plant and the wrath of unmade wine; ready to quench the thirst of their fallen master.

Completing the circle of trees in the clearing was Ivy. Unlike the others, Ivy did not stand solitary and under its own power. The linking tree that connected the Vine of Mabon with the Reed of Samhain created a slight shadow from the full moon. A soft web of moonlight helped identify the plant that lived after the death of its supporters; the thirteenth tree and the last to be planted.

The family stood between each tree, leaving a space at the head for their as of yet absent leader. Soon though, he would be amongst them again.

“Bring out the betrayers.” Three sharp cracks and three small, shivering bodies were lying in the dirt in front of them: bodies writhing, naked and perspiring in the cold air. The youngest of them looked less than 11 years old; a child.

A few of the family looked away, unable to fully reconcile the innocence before them with the knowledge of their glorious task. It was needed and their original choice had been taken from them in Battle a year prior. They had one chance at this, and they could not let sentiment get in the way.

Turning to the newly arrived people the head of the family - the only one so far to speak – pulled three black silk sacks from inside his robes. Carefully he undid their ties and tipped the first into the bound hands of the child. A cracked and tarnished goblet tumbled out and lay perfectly still in her tiny fingers.

“Eliza Smith,” He intoned. “Heir to the house of Hufflepuff, I name thee betrayer.” A light gold sheen swept over her and she started to vibrate slightly as if stuck by some gigantean tuning fork.

Two pairs of hands picked her up and carried her to kneel at the foot of the alter that took up the centre of the ring. She didn’t resist, here eyes glued to the tiny cup in her hands; spellbound by the ancient magic it contained.

The second sack jangled softly, as if containing a multitude of metal and glass. He poured it out into the hands of the middle-aged man with a vacant expression crossing his otherwise perfectly symmetrical smile.

“Gilderoy Lockhart, Heir to the house of Ravenclaw.” This came in a sneer. It was no big secret that the worm on the dirt in front of him carried none of the intellect and charm of his ancestor. “I name thee betrayer.”

The pieces of ash and twisted metal along with a single large sapphire glowed a sky blue that creeped over Lockhart’s body. Slowly, recognition flowed across his features for the first time in half a decade before he too was struck by the same tuning fork and carried away by the same pair of hands.

Those two relics had been relatively easy to acquire, a simple matter of waiting for the distraction of a post Battle celebrations to sneak into the ruins of Hogwarts and collect the abandoned pieces of Tom Riddle’s former horcruxes.

The tricky part came next. It had taken a daring a daring amount of risk and planning to acquire not only the last sacrifice but also the relic.

He turned and opened the last silken sack and suddenly a muffled and indigent voice could be heard coming from within. The soft rustle of leather on silk was heard as the man pulled a battered, stained and struggling pointed hat out of the bag. The Hogwarts Sorting Hat.

“Neville Longbottom” His voice was straining as the hat fought against him. “Heir to the house of Gryffindor. I name thee betrayer.” He tossed the hat into the hand of the last figure on the ground in front of him.

Unlike the two before, there was no glow. No vibrations. The Sorting Hat lay limply in Neville “Hero of Hogwarts” Longbottom’s hands. Neville starred at the hat and then at his captors. This wasn’t the right relic. He tried to keep still and wait for a chance to use his one advantage.

There was muttering starting to permeate the air around him. His fellow family members had questioned at length the wisdom of his actions. Failure tonight would mean the failure of everything they had worked for the last nine hundred years. The two that had moved Neville’s fellow captives started towards him again.

Neville took a breath and thrust his hand into the Sorting Hat; clutching for the fell of cold steel and gemstones.

With a single graceful swing, Neville dropped the hat and pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from its confines and brought it up to face off against the would-be captors.

“Such bravery!” the hooded man laughed. “You truly are worthy of such titles given to you! Against overwhelming odds, with no wand or allies you stand ready to defend yourself and your friends from the Big. Bad. Villains!” Mocking clapping started around him.

“Neville Longbottom, Heir to the house of Gryffindor. I name thee betrayer!” The sword in Neville’s hands shone a vibrant scarlet red and shook him to his core.

“You see, my dear, dear child, taking the Sword of Gryffindor would have caused far too much outcry. An investigation and hunt the like of which hadn’t been seen since before the fall of Tom. No one would miss a burnt, mangled hat buried under a castle of rubble and last seen burning away. You have completed our task with our deepest thanks.”

Two hands picked Neville up and placed him opposite Lockhart, completing a perfect triangle around the alter.

“Brothers and Sisters. We are here after nine hundred years of planning, scheming, conniving, and suffering. Tonight, we have the stars aligned, the ring of life, the circle of servants and the three betrayers. We are ready.”

There was a light shuffling. Eleven hoods were lowered. Skin of all colours, hairs of every shade were exposed under the cloudless sky.

“We the Family” the eleven spoke in unison. The first words they ever learnt; passed down from generation to generation. “The chosen disciples stand here in the grove of life to bear witness to the return of our Lord. The three that betrayed you, placed now in sufferance at your whim and the objects that bound you held in sacrifice now ready your claim! SALAZAR SLYTHERIN! REUTRN TO US!”

All thirteen trees exploded simultaneously: fire consuming them all in a blinding light. Eleven smouldering cloaks and robe fluttered to the ground; the bodies they clothed reduced to ash.

Eliza Smith, Gilderoy Lockhart and Neville Longbottom lay dead, each holding onto the relics they had been given.

In the centre of the triangle a blood soaked, hairless eighteen-year-old boy sat up.

He looked around at the burning trees, the piles of ash and robe and finally on the three dead and naked people surrounding him.

He started screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione didn’t exactly bolt to the Burrow. She calmly and collectedly cleaned herself up and got to work on the formerly pristine reading chair. No number of Scouring charms seemed to make a difference and she resigned herself to an awkward discussion with Molly.

After changing out of her somewhat childish pyjamas and into attire more suitable to meet with prospective in-laws –

Hemione stopped herself with a very sudden shock. “They will never be my family.” It hit her like a train. “They will only ever be Mr and Mrs Weasley from now on.” She finished getting dressed and made one last attempt to clean her once unmarked leather chair. More of the sick came away before Hermione huffed and reached into her kitchen cabinet, looking for anything that might save her favourite reading spot.

The last dregs of Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover ( _No Pain, No Stain_ ) slopped out of its container and the smell of acid and her parents old dental cleaning solutions mixed painfully with the remnants of her breakfast. Fearing another bout of sickness, Hermione made her way from her apartment and dashed up the Alley to The Leaky Cauldron and to the public floo network.

Passing through she waved off a frazzled looking Hannah Abbott at the bar, she too was ashen faced and clutching at one of those accursed envelopes. It seemed that a third of the Pub had been a recipient of similar news to Hermione that morning; each one of them looking equalled shocked or stricken by the news. Hermione had just enough time to register the odd smirk or smile in the faces of girls who Hermione remembered being cruel to her in Hogwarts. Millicent Bulstrode even put her in a _headlock_ for Merlin’s sake and here she was enjoying an edict that might very well destroy many young people’s lives!

Hermione huffed to herself and moved to the large fireplace and grabbed a handful of the grey-green floo powder before almost yelling “The Burrow!” in her haste to get away from the stares and whispers that were starting to build up around her. Just before the fire took her on her journey, she swore she could hear someone laughing.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry woke to the sound of plates clashing about through the thick canvas of the tent’s divider that split off their sleeping quarters from the main area of the tent.

“Morning” He muttered as he made his way passed Hermione, clanging to prepare breakfast and into the forest to complete his morning ablutions. This had been going on for some time. Not that Harry could blame her. Every day had been getting harder and harder for Hermione to bear and Ron, while attentive, was unable to alleviate to stress that was obvious with each camping plate she tossed onto the table.

Harry had tried to make himself scarce a few times in order to allow them some…privacy, but despite his best efforts to help their fledgling relationship along, whatever spark that existed between Hermione and Ron was fading ever so slightly day by day. The situation was difficult, but Harry vowed to make it right before the child was born. No child should come into the world unloved, he mused.

By the time he returned Ron was up and about, his gangly form lumbering around as he tried to complete his own morning requirements.

Thankfully, food hadn’t been as much of an issue this time around as it had when they were horcrux hunting. Nothing made one appreciate the culinary arts of domestic magic quite like being forced to eat nothing but wild chestnuts and the few not poisonous mushrooms for the better part of a year. Now armed with a collection of Mrs Weasley’s best cooking books and horticulture manuals, providing quality meals were much more practical and affordable; especially since Hermione was now eating for two.

Placing down a saucepan containing a formidable amount of scrambled eggs, Hermione threw herself into her seat and didn’t even bother to wait for Ron to finish toasting the bread before she started heaping the eggs onto her plate. The once fussy eater who focused on manners at the Gryffindor table and regularly berated Ron’s eating habits was shovelling food into her mouth with reckless abandonment.

“Any more luck today, do you think?” Hermione questioned, a string of egg hanging from one corner of her mouth and wildly gesturing to the pile of books and maps overflowing from the other end of their gnarled dining table.

Harry merely grunted in response and let his mind wander, attempting to avoid the task that was in front of them. He picked at his food with one hand while the second was kept buried in the pocket of his robes; fiddling with the small velvet box that had been his constant companion these last 6 months.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry spent most of his days after the Battle of Hogwarts at the Burrow. Unlike Hermione, Harry was more than happy to avoid taking unnecessary NEWTS and instead rely on his practical experience to speak for itself.

It wasn’t so much that he didn’t feel compelled to take the NEWTS but more so that returning to a schooling environment with essays and tests felt counter intuitive to the way in which his life was heading. If the last year had helped prove, his gut feeling, and intuition were strong indicators of how to lead his life.

Despite Shacklebolt trying to get him to make a statement in support of his bid for Minister of Magic, Harry instead decided to focus on the one thing that was closer to him than anything else, his sense of family. Lying under the shadow of the old Oak tree, Harry saw his Ginny soar through the air on her hand-me-down broom.

“She deserves a better broom” Harry thought. The trouble was that he was still banned from the Gringotts establishment by the entirety of the Goblin nation. Negotiations were ongoing but as of yet he was locked out of accessing either his parents vault or the much more interesting Black vaults.

Harry was more than willing to hand over the entire contents of his inheritance from Sirius but was advised by a very nervous looking Bill. “Those vaults have been locked for fifteen years Harry. The Blacks were, even at the best of times, collectors of dangerous and unstable things. It might not be the wisest decision to leave them unchecked with items that could cause us problems down the track.”

So, Harry waited as Bill and Arthur Weasley attempted to rustle up an appropriate, but benign, collection of Goblin-crafted items and pieces of historical value. Grimmauld Place had been ransacked twice over, first by Mudungus Fletcher and secondly by the Death Eaters let in by Corban Yaxley after the trio’s disastrous reclamation of Slytherin’s Locket.

Mudungus was located again by an incredibly angry Kreacher and managed to divulge the hiding stops he had used to secure whatever pieces he had obtained after Sirius’ death with the helpful encouragement of Kreacher and Molly Weasley’s third best cast iron skillet.

The haul had unfortunately not been that impressive. It consisted of thirteen salad forks, a tarnished platter with a sizable dent in its centre, a pair of diamond encrusted sugar tongs and inexplicably a tiny round buckler shield fit only for small children. The rest had been lost to the wind, sold, or bartered away during the height of the conflict.

Yaxley was currently serving a life sentence for the acts of genocide her oversaw as head of the DLME in Tom’s reign of terror. He had been found missing most of his teeth and barely alive; Lee Jordan and George never said what they had done to him and Corban was in no condition to enlighten anyone, even six months after the event. No one blamed George and Lee. Losing family does terrible things to people.

Ginny had decided not to return to Hogwarts either. She didn’t go into much detail but from the look she sometimes got whenever she wasn’t in the air or the sudden appearance of her wand at the slightest provocation impressed on Harry that she was dealing with her own deep and dark demons while under the Carrow twins _education_.

Harry had decided not to push and let her slowly open up and talk about it at her own pace. It had taken time but with each story Harry flipped between with one of the siblings were worse. Part of him wished to return to that moment in the Ravenclaw Common room with the knowledge of what they had done. Part of him was terrified of what he would do if he did.

Hopefully the promise of gold and the items they had currently retrieved would be enough to at least start to sooth the Goblins anger.

When Shacklebolt had offered him a fast track through the Auror Academy, Harry could feel something off. It felt far too much like Scrimgour’s continual attempts to woo Harry to aiding the former Ministry’s attempts to appease the public. Harry had fobbed Shacklebolt off with the usual Enjoying-my-rest-and-freedom-from-winning-the-war spiel, but the truth was that Harry wasn’t completely ready to trust the Ministry again after everything that had happened. He agreed to assist in the capture of known Death Eaters that were still at large but his primary focus had to be the few people left that Harry could count on as family.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

With breakfast completed and put away, the days monotonous activities started.

Harry, Ron and Hermione – positioned on the reclining sofa they had wrangled – again looked at the map of Northumberland and the Lowlands of Scotland trying to work along the notes handed to them indicating the presence of one of those pockets of Death Eaters that were trying to openly reform.

They didn’t have a lot to go on. Mostly the testimony of people who heard names between torture sessions at the Ministry or Hogwarts. Merlin’s beard, they weren’t even sure if the Death Eaters were even responsible for the insane edict that had thrown the balance of power back to the dogs and forced families out of the broken embers of established relationships.

“We know that the Rowle’s came from just South of the border” Ron suggested, looking through the list of names unaccounted for. “Thorfinn was never caught and their family were all in pretty tight with the Lestrange’s and really hates anything that isn’t Death Eater.”

“We’ll put him on the list” Hermione flicked her wand and a red splodge of ink appeared over the city of Bamburgh. A similar splodge appeared next to Thorfinn Rowle’s name. “Might as well start there and see if we can find any leads on where their _estates_ ” the words dripping with sarcasm “might be found.”

A bright white light burst through the canvas flap of the tent’s entrance, Harry and Ron were immediately standing, books and maps sliding to the floor as they drew their wands. Hermione didn’t bother to get up. She merely pointed her wand at the intruding light and waited, mentally running through possible charms to protect her and the baby.

The light morphed into a beautiful horse; Ginny Weasley’s patronus. The words were garbled but still impressive for a witch of Ginny’s age.

“It’s Neville. He’s disappeared. Meet at the place. Tonight.”


End file.
